


The Improbable Future

by marycontraire



Category: Boy Meets World, Girl Meets World
Genre: F/M, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, surrogate parent relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marycontraire/pseuds/marycontraire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maya is way too smart to get her hopes up.  But the adults around her aren't making it easy to be smart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Improbable Future

It’s about the size of a phone book. Well, Maya’s pretty sure it is: She’s never actually seen a phone book. But that’s what grown-ups say when books are really thick, and the New York City high school selection guide is really thick. She’s opened it once or twice on her own, but she gave up pretty fast; she doesn’t even really know what she’s looking for. Their new homeroom teacher, Mr. Turner, gave them a whole lecture on it: number of AP classes, special interests, travel distance, special requirements for getting in, graduation percentages. It doesn’t really matter, though, where Maya goes. 

She already knows where she isn’t going: She isn’t going to Bronx Science.

She took the Specialized High School Admissions Test, of course, and she even studied over the summer with Riley. They went through all the prep books and practice tests that Mrs. Matthews bought them, and then they rewarded themselves with popsicles and evenings spent roaming the neighborhood, goofing around and talking about nothing in the ninety degree haze that hung over the city long after dark like a suffocating blanket. 

A last hurrah, Maya tried not to think. The last vacation before the last school year that she and Riley are going to spend together. Because Riley, Maya knows, is going to get into Bronx Science. 

Maya’s high school selection sheet is still between the front inside cover and the first page of the high school guide. It hasn’t gotten folded or messed up or anything. The only part Maya’s filled out is her name and her seven digit OSIS number.

&

Shawn’s SRO is in Alphabet City. It’s a bit of a hike, but you can walk there from the Matthews’ place if you have a bit of time. From Maya and her mom’s apartment, too, and from John Quincy Adams Middle School. Shawn walked her over there once, but he didn’t take her upstairs.

“I don’t want you hanging around here,” Shawn said, standing outside the stoop. “I don’t know everyone who lives here, and I’m sure some of them are sketchy. I’m just telling you so you know where I sometimes am. In case of an emergency.”

“Sure,” Maya says.

“Although, if it’s an emergency, you should probably go to the Matthews’. They’re good at emergencies.” Shawn pushes his hand through his hair, like he’s nervous or something. 

“Sure,” Maya says again. She goes them for help all the time. She was kind of hoping the point of all _this_ stuff with Shawn was that she could have her own… person to go to.

“You know their numbers in your head, right? You don’t just have them in your phone?” Shawn asks.

Maya rolls her eyes and rattles off their home phone.

“What about Topanga’s cell?” he asks.

Maya knows that one, too.

“And Cory’s?”

Maya shrugs at that one. “Why would I need to know that?” she asks. “He’s always right there at my school.”

“He won’t be next year,” Shawn points out. (Thanks for the reminder, buddy.) “You should learn it.”

“Fine,” Maya agrees. “It’s in here.” She waves her phone in the air.

There’s a moment of awkward -- well, not silence, because the guys sitting on the steps up to Shawn’s building are kind of making a racket. Then Shawn says, “Look, Maya, I’m not Cory Matthews. I’m not, you know, _dad_ material. Not even surrogate dad material.”

“I get it,” Maya says, looking down at her shoes. Her feet kind of hurt -- if she’d realized how long the walk was, she wouldn’t have worn boots with heels.

“But I’m still here for you, you know. You can call me whenever you need me. Even if you know I’m out of town, if you need me to come back, I will. Okay?”

“Okay,” Maya agrees. Then Shawn makes her recite _his_ phone number. Maya rolls her eyes.

(He has a 215 area code, like Mr. and Mrs. Matthews.)

&

It’s October, but it’s still pretty warm. Riley spends homeroom trading shy smiles with Lucas. They need to figure out their relationship or Maya is going to grab them both by the back of the head and smash their faces together. She’s losing patience with this crap.

She’s also doodling in the inside cover of her math textbook, even though it’s the property of the NYC DOE and she’s not allowed to do that. 

“Miss Hart,” Mr. Turner calls, just as the bell goes. “I need a word with you.”

“I have Math,” Maya says.

“I’ll write you a note,” Mr. Turner assures her as she reluctantly walks up to his desk. Maya doesn’t know what this is about, but she doubts it’s something good.

Mr. Turner raises his eyebrows at Riley, who’s lingering by Maya’s side. “I won’t write one for you,” he says. Riley cringes and makes a hasty retreat. 

“I’ll see you in a minute,” Maya calls after her.

“Miss Hart,” Mr. Turner says. “We need to talk about high school applications.”

“Uh, Mr. Turner,” Maya says. “The deadline for the selection sheet isn’t for weeks, and I’m not selecting anything that requires a special application.”

“That’s precisely what we need to talk about.”

Maya crosses her arms in annoyance. “Mr. Turner, I’m not going to get into a Specialized High School and you know it.”

“It’s funny you should say that,” Mr. Turner continues, “because your art teacher seems to think you have an excellent chance of getting into LaGuardia. But in order to do that, you need to submit a portfolio of work and register to take a drawing exam. Apparently you haven’t done either of those things, and deadlines are rapidly approaching.”

Maya shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t see the point.”

“Well, I do,” Mr. Turner insists. “I’m calling your mom in for a meeting this afternoon. Maybe she can help motivate you to take advantage of this opportunity before it’s too late.”

“Good luck with that,” Maya says, and holds out her hand for the pass.

“I’ll see you back here for PM homeroom,” Mr. Turner reminds her as he hands it over. “And I’m keeping you after school to start putting together this portfolio whether your mom shows or not.”

“Great,” Maya says dispassionately. Turner has written the exact time on the pass, so she actually has to go straight to Math instead of detouring through the girls’ bathroom or the hallway. What a jerk.

&

Maya knows her mom isn’t going to show at this meeting. It’s not like she doesn’t care about Maya’s future. But leaving early from work isn’t exactly in her job description, and Maya’s pretty sure she doesn’t even understand what a Specialized High School is, let alone know anything about LaGuardia and the Art Audition process.

Mr. Turner, though, seems to have learned all about it sometime during the school day. He’s reading off a printout while Maya, alone in the classroom, glares at him from her desk.

“Artwork and portfolio can be any size that is comfortable for the student to carry. Portfolio should include between 10 and 20 pieces of work. All art pieces should be either matted or mounted.” Mr. Turner pauses there. “Do you know how to mat or mount? Maybe we should go find Ms. Kossal to help with that?”

The door squeaks open, and Maya’s head swivels toward the sound.

“Sorry I’m late,” Shawn says as he strides into the classroom. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” Maya almost shouts. She can’t decide if she’s feeling pleased or horrified.

“Well, your mom said the phone message she got sounded important, but she couldn’t get off work, so she sent me to report back to -- _Jon?_ ”

Shawn stops short in the middle of the classroom, gaping at Mr. Turner.

Maya belatedly remembers that Mr. Matthews knew Mr. Turner before he started working at John Quincy Adams. “Oh, that’s right,” she says. “You were his teacher, too.”

“A little more than that,” Shawn exclaims, engulfing Mr. Turner in a massive hug.

“Shawn actually lived with me for a year,” Mr. Turner tells Maya.

“Yeah, he put up with a lot of crap from me,” Shawn smiles.

“Bailed you out of jail a few times, too,” Mr. Turner agrees.

Maya’s world has been effectively rocked.

“So, how do you know Maya?”

“I, uh, help out when I can,” Shawn says, seemingly at a loss to explain their relationship. Then, “So, what’s she done this time?”

“It’s more what she _hasn’t_ done,” Mr. Turner says. “And that would be get ready for her Art Audition for LaGuardia. It’s an excellent arts high school, and our art teacher thinks Maya has a good shot, as long as she meets the deadlines and keeps her grades up this year.”

“So, what exactly does she have to do?” Shawn asks.

“Well, we were just about to go over the requirements for the portfolio. She needs to bring it with her to LaGuardia on the day of the art exam.”

“And when is this exam?”

“Ten AM. Saturday the 24th.”

Shawn takes out his smart phone and opens his calendar app. Maya is sitting right next to him, and she can see that he’s supposed to be in Savannah, GA the 23rd to the 25th. Shawn deletes that entry and types “drag Maya to LaGuardia” in at 9AM on the 24th.

&

After Mr. Turner finishes giving a lot of dumb instructions that Shawn takes notes on in his dumb phone, Shawn brings her by the art room, where Ms. Kossal promises to stay after school to help her mat and mount tomorrow. Then she hands Shawn a list of matting supplies that Maya _knows_ are expensive and the address of an art supply store near Union Square.

Outside, Maya scuffs her boot against the school’s steps. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Well, I want to,” Shawn says. “This way, kiddo.” He steers her shoulder toward 13th street. 

“This stuff is going to be expensive,” she protests.

“I think I can swing it,” Shawn answers.

“And you don’t have to cancel your trip to Savannah just to drive me to some test.”

“Maybe not,” Shawn agrees. “But if your mom has to work that day, I will.”

“I don’t even want to go to this stupid high school,” Maya grumbles.

“Of course you don’t,” Shawn agrees. “If you actually _wanted_ to go, then it would sure suck if they rejected you.”

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Maya glares.

“Not particularly,” Shawn says. “You make this a lot easier by repeating all of my mistakes instead of making scary new ones.”

“Ha,” Maya says.

“Well, you can go ahead and not care about high school as much as you want. You _will_ fill out your selection sheet, you _will_ put together a portfolio, you _will_ be there on time for that test, and, if anyone asks you why, you can just say I made you do it.”

“You’re a pain,” Maya decides aloud.

“Good,” says Shawn.

&

When they get back to her apartment, Maya carefully unpacks the mats and the measuring tool and matting knife and lays them out on her bed. Mom always gets her drawing notebooks and pencils and stuff for Christmas, but she’s never had materials or tools this professional before.

“Don’t get used to it,” Maya reminds herself under her breath.

“Maya!” Shawn calls from the kitchenette. “Where are the bowls?”

Maya slides the supplies carefully back into the Utrecht Art bag and swings open the door to her room. The rest of the apartment is all one room -- her mom’s bed is separated from the kitchen, dining table, and couch by one of those Ikea square shelves that has their TV in it. “We don’t use real bowls,” she tells Shawn. “My mom does enough dishes at work. She doesn’t need to do them at home, too.”

Shawn shrugs. “I’ll do the dishes.”

Maya crosses to the cabinet and takes out two bowls while Shawn starts unpacking the take-out from Saigon Grill. “You gonna use chopsticks or a fork?” he asks, brandishing the disposable chopsticks. 

Maya grabs one of them. “I’m an expert,” she informs him.

“Really? I suck,” Shawn answers.

“I’ll teach you,” Maya offers.

&

The next morning, Maya doesn’t tell Riley about Mr. Turner’s and Shawn’s conspiracy to plan for her future or whatever. It’s weird. She’s always told Riley everything before. And it’s not like she’s angry or really all that worried about Riley’s reaction -- she’ll be disappointed that Maya isn’t trying for Bronx Science, but she’s always been supportive, and Maya doesn’t imagine she’d choose now to start being self-centered.

It just feels like something she wants to keep to herself for a while. Maya can’t explain it.

“So, you’re coming over after school, right?” Riley asks, after the bell rings in PM homeroom. 

“Can’t,” Maya says.

“You can’t?” Riley says, obviously shocked.

“I just have this art thing I need to do. It won’t take that long. How about I come over for dinner?”

Riley is placated. “Okay!” She smiles widely and bounces off. Just by the classroom door, she trips and almost wipes out but manages to recover. “I’m fine!” she yells back at Maya. Maya smiles to herself a little.

&

Maya texts Shawn sometimes, when he’s out of town. He’s told her before not to say something she wouldn’t want getting back to her mom eventually, so she’s pretty sure he shows her mom their text window from time to time. That’s annoying but fine, she supposes. She can understand why he would feel the need to reassure her mom in that way.

Mostly, they have variations on the same conversation:

Maya says, _where r u today?_

Shawn says, _guess._ Then he texts her a picture of whatever city he’s in. Sometimes he’s near a legitimate landmark and she can use Google to figure it out, but much of the time she can’t. 

Then Maya says, _you win._

And Shawn says, _seattle_ or _chicago_ or _asheville_ or wherever he is.

Sometimes he also says, _i’ll be back tuesday kiddo._

&

Maya wants to climb up the fire escape and make her usual entrance through Riley’s window, but her portfolio is pretty unwieldy and she’ll admit that she’d be pretty upset if she dropped it while climbing, so she actually hits the intercom by the front door and waits for Mrs. Matthews to buzz her up.

“Maya,” Mr. Matthews exclaims when she walks in, “so kind of you to use our front door!” He’s grading something at the kitchen table. 

“I like to keep you on your toes,” Maya says.

“Riley, Maya’s here!” calls Mrs. Matthews. “And dinner’s almost ready!” Then she turns to her husband. “Cory, will you get those papers off the table please?”

As Mr. Matthews scrambles to stack them all up, he says, “What’s that you’ve got there, Maya?”

Maya puts her portfolio down gently on the coffee table, then drops her backpack on the floor with far less care. “Just a portfolio of art and stuff.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing in the art room?” Riley asks, walking in from the hall. She hugs Maya and Maya hugs her back even though they saw each other about two and a half hours ago.

“Yeah,” she confirms. 

“What’s it for?” Riley asks.

“Ohhh,” Maya stalls before taking the plunge. “Just this dumb Art Audition. I don’t really care about it but Shawn is really into making me do this for some reason. So, you know, whatever.”

“Shawn?” Mr. Matthews says, exchanging a look with Mrs. Matthews. They are both clearly delighted by this news and are doing a very bad job of hiding it. 

“What’s the audition for?” Riley asks, sliding into her seat on the bench at the table as Mrs. Matthews puts a bowl of rice and some kind of chicken dish down. 

Maya plays with her fork. On the other side of the table, Mrs. Matthews helps Augie into his seat. “Um,” Maya says, “it’s actually part of the application process for LaGuardia.”

“Wow,” says Mr. Matthews. “That’s a great idea, Maya! It’s an excellent school. I think it would be a great fit for you.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” Mrs. Matthews admits. “Cory, what kind of school is it?”

“It’s one of the Specialized high schools, like Riley’s applying to,” Mr. Matthews says. “But it’s specifically for the arts. So they look at your grades, but they also have a pretty competitive arts side of the application.”

Riley remains silent.

“Yeah,” Maya says. “I have to go to the school and take some big art test. Like, they give you materials, and you have to sketch a live model and a still life, and then you have to draw from your imagination based on a prompt with oil pastels. And you submit a portfolio. I had to mat some of my better work for it.”

“Is your mom up for taking you to the test?” Mrs. Matthews asks. “Can you get there on the subway? Because we can drive you if you can’t.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Matthews,” Maya says. “Shawn has it covered if she has to work.”

Mr. Matthews gives his wife the least subtle look Maya has ever seen. She takes a large bite of chicken and tries to ignore both them and her silent best friend beside her. Luckily, Augie chooses that moment to randomly start singing at the top of his lungs.

&

Later, when they’re safely ensconced in Riley’s bay window seat, Riley says, “So I guess we’re really not going to school together next year.”

Maya puts her arm around Riley’s shoulders. “Honey,” she says, “it was never going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Riley protests.

“I kind of do,” Maya says. “You need top grades to get into Bronx Science.”

“We don’t even know I’ll get in there.”

“If you don’t, you’ll get into Brooklyn Tech, or ElRo. I wasn’t going to get into any of those places. I probably won’t get into LaGuardia. But Shawn seems to think I have a shot and he’s making me do all this stuff for it, so I guess I’m just going to go with it and put it as my number one.”

“I can’t get into LaGuardia,” Riley points out. “I’m terrible at art.”

Maya laughs. “Yes, honey, you are.”

“Do you promise to climb through my window every single night that we’re at a different school and be my best friend always?” Riley says.

“Try and stop me,” Maya says.

When she stands to leave, Riley looks sad and weirdly small in the window seat, even though she’s way taller than Maya. 

“Hey,” Maya says. “Smile.”

Instantly, Riley does, dimples appearing in her cheeks, and she is at once both beautiful and undeniably dorky. 

Maya has the best taste in friends. She whips out her phone and snaps a photo. “The camera loves you, dahling,” she says in her best British accent.

“Love you, Maya.”

“Love you more, Riley.”

Walking down the hall, she texts the picture of Riley in the bay window to Shawn. _guess where._

By the time Maya has reclaimed her backpack and art portfolio from the living room, Shawn’s responded: _63 bleecker street. tell cory i say hi._

Maya texts back: _ew his name is mr matthews when youre talking to me. he teaches me things. youre a terrible grown up._

“Have a good night, Maya!” Mr. Matthews calls from the table, where he’s re-installed himself and his grading. “For the record, I think LaGuardia would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Matthews. Also, uh, Shawn says hi.” She waves her phone vaguely in the air and then exits as gracefully as she can.

Her phone buzzes as she walks down the stairs to the brownstone’s front door. _still working on that._

&

Maya is awoken by a rustling noise early in the morning. She cracks her eyes open to see her mom standing over her desk, back facing Maya. She looks like she’s… reading? Or something?

“Mom?” she croaks. “What are you doing?”

Her mom whirls around. “Oh, sorry, sweetie! I didn’t mean to wake you!”

“Then why are you in here?” Maya asks.

“I just got back really late from the bar last night, and I wanted to see all your work in your portfolio.” She shrugs, looking guilty, like Maya’s going to be mad at her. 

Suddenly, though, Maya is the one who feels a little guilty. Her mom’s been working two jobs ever since they raised the rent on their apartment, because she doesn’t want to move Maya away from Riley and her school. At night, she bartends -- that gets her better tips, but fewer and crappier hours. During the day, she’s still waitressing at the bakery. “That’s okay, Mom,” Maya says.

“No, I’ll just let you get back to sleep,” her mom says. “You still have more than an hour.”

“No, really,” Maya says. “I want you to see it. I’m getting in the shower anyway. I’m already up, so I may as well come have breakfast at the bakery, right?”

Her mom’s face does this thing where it looks like it’s unsure whether to smile or cry, so Maya rushes to the shower before she has to think too hard about that one.

&

Shawn spends most of the next few weeks away. From Portland, he texts her a photo of the Old City water tower. From Montreal, the view from the top of the Olympic tower. From Philadelphia, the Waterworks. (Maya’s been to Philly with Shawn and the Matthews family, so City Hall, the LOVE statue, and the Art Museum steps are all way too obvious.)

He does come back home three times, though. 

The first time, he comes by on a Saturday to see her portfolio. He tells her it’s great, and then he takes her to Shake Shack and to the MoMA. Clearly, he’s going hard on this “your art is important to your future” routine.

The second time, she runs into him when she climbs through Riley’s window, and he’s helping Mrs. Matthews set the table for dinner. Maya’s mom is at her night job at the bar, so after dinner Shawn makes her stay at the Matthews’ and do her homework in Riley’s room. He checks that she’s done it all before he walks her home. (He can’t check against her planbook, because she never writes in it even though Mom bought her one in August, so he has to check against Riley’s. They have all the same classes anyway.)

The third time, Maya doesn’t see him, but she does see his leather jacket on her couch, which means he must have been somewhere with her mom. They’ve been trying to keep her in the dark about whatever the hell they’re doing with each other because they’re both worried that she’ll “get her hopes up.”

Maya’s already gotten her hopes up. Her hopes are sky high. The problem is, she doesn’t particularly trust either of them not to drag them crashing to the ground. Mom’s never had a stable relationship since Maya’s known her, and, as far as Maya can tell, Shawn hasn’t had a relationship since his high school girlfriend Angela that hasn’t ended with him running away. Literally. To a faraway city. He’s even made a career of it. He’s a good guy, the best her mom’s chosen so far, but how the hell is Maya supposed to believe she’s not just another stop on this endless roadtrip of his?

&

“Honey,” her mom says one morning when Angela’s opening the bakery and she’s home in the morning. Her mom is pretty good about not hovering and not checking through her backpack or anything babyish like that -- she knows that Maya’s grown up in the years that she’s been overworked.

“Yeah, what is it?” Maya asks. She’s drinking her coffee, which is mostly milk. Her mom disapproves of her drinking coffee, but she’s not bold enough to really say no to it -- she just makes her dump about half a cup of milk in it so that she’s at least getting calcium along with her caffeine. It’s kind of fine with Maya.

“I have something to run by you.”

“Okay, sure, what is it?” Maya asks.

“Well,” her mom says, stretching out the syllable. “Shawn is in the city this weekend.”

“I know that, Mom. He’s driving me to LaGuardia tomorrow morning while you open the bakery.”

“Right, exactly. And, you know, we’ve been trying to keep our dating stuff separate from you because we want you to know that he’s going to be here to support you no matter what happens with us.”

“Yeah,” Maya agrees sarcastically. “It makes me feel way better that you two experts are embarking on this mission without my supervision.”

“Very funny,” her mom says. “Anyway, we were thinking that it’s been a while now, and maybe it’s time for the three of us to have dinner together. Tonight.”

Maya’s not really sure how to respond to that. “Are we going out?” she asks.

“No, actually,” her mom says. “Shawn wants to cook. Here, though. He shares his kitchen, obviously, since he’s in an SRO.”

“And his neighbors are sketchy. Yeah, I’ve heard this speech,” Maya reassures her. “Well, I honestly feel like having the two of you in the same room as me might break the space-time continuum that Farkle’s told me about. But I guess we could give it a go.”

“How generous of you,” her mom says.

“Whatever. Go count cookies or whatever it is you do,” Maya says. 

Her mom throws a crumpled up paper towel at her shoulder. 

“Hey, Mom,” Maya says, halfway through the front door. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” her mom says.

&

It doesn’t occur to Maya until halfway through English, and, of course, they now have Mr. Turner. He’s ancient. _Nothing_ gets by him.

So he totally catches her on the way back into the classroom. Looking through the window in the door, she can see that behind him everyone else is silently free-writing in their notebooks. The door clicks closed. “I know you were on the phone and not really in the bathroom,” Mr. Turner says.

“Mr. Turner,” Maya pleads. “I realize you’re pretty hardcore these days. But I happen to know you used to have sympathy for the delinquents.”

“You’re not making a particularly compelling case for yourself, Miss Hart.”

“Well,” Maya says, “your bloodhound instinct was correct. I was on the phone. Here, have it. See who I was calling.”

“Mom,” Mr. Turner says. “That’s what it says on the screen, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Maya says. “I was calling my mom to ask my best friend over for dinner.”

“As thrilling as that sounds, you know this is a cell phone free zone, Miss Hart.”

“Except, I’ve _never_ asked my best friend over for dinner before. And we’ve best best friends since kindergarten. I go over to her house for dinner about three times a week.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. Tell me why you’re such a special snowflake today.”

“I don’t know!” Maya exclaims. “I just think I won’t be embarrassed. No take out. No mom coming late. Shawn’s cooking. It’ll be like, almost Matthews-level of normal, you know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Turner says. “And you have a detention for using your phone during school hours. However, our computer system is pretty slow, so the detention likely won’t be assigned until next week. Nothing I can do about that.”

Maya can’t contain her smile. “Yes, Mr. Turner. Got it.”

“You can pick up your phone at the end of the day,” Mr. Turner says, adjusting his tie.

“I’ll tell Shawn you said hi.”

&

“I can’t believe this is my move,” Shawn says, shoving the Pyrex dish into the oven. “I used to have so many moves, I swear.”

“Sure, sure, I believe you,” says Maya’s mom, setting the table in the kitchenette.

“And somehow the only move I can manage to roll out now is chicken l’orange. A move I literally stole from my foster dad a million years ago.”

“Ew!” Maya yells from the couch. “Your foster dad is our English teacher!”

“He sure is,” Shawn confirms. “Though, in my defense, he used to make this with Tang. At least I used real orange juice.”

“What’s Tang?” Riley yells back. They’re watching the _Frozen_ DVD that Shawn got from the Redbox in the Duane Reade because Maya’s mom still hasn’t made the leap to having a Roku or Xbox and she won’t subscribe to Netflix or Hulu.

“Jesus,” Shawn says in the kitchen. “We are so old. They’ve never heard of _Tang?_ ” 

“I hear this kind of thing every day,” Maya’s mom reminds him.

“It’s a rough life you lead,” Shawn says.

Riley leans her head against Maya’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says. “Your apartment is kind of fun. Why don’t we come here more?”

Maya shrugs, which jerks Riley’s head awkwardly up and down. “Maybe we should,” she says.

“Your fire alarm works, right?” Shawn asks Maya’s mom. “I’m opening a window just in case.” He crosses the living room and blows right through the beaded hangings that represent the “door” between the living room and Maya’s mom’s room to open two windows.

“Hey,” Riley says, sitting up a little. “Good luck at LaGuardia tomorrow. And good luck with all of this.” She gestures expansively at Maya’s apartment. Shawn is emerging from the beads and making a beeline to the oven to check on his chicken l’orange. “If anyone deserves for everything to work out for them, Maya, it’s you.”

“Honey,” Maya says, “you know that’s not how the world works.”

“I know,” Riley says. “Everyone thinks I have no idea how the world works. But I know how it’s worked for you. I just think that maybe, this time, maybe it could be different?”

“Maybe,” Maya allows. “I hope so, Riles.”

&

As promised, Shawn picks Maya up at 9 AM from her mom’s bakery. She’s been sketching for two hours, which is either a great idea or a terrible one. Her mom’s given her one free cup of half-coffee half-milk and a muffin. “See you when she’s done,” Shawn promises as he ushers her out the door to his piece of crap car.

“I can’t believe you drive this all over the country,” Maya points out.

“Neither can I,” Shawn says. “I used to imagine myself to be more of a motorcycle man.”

Maya laughs out loud.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shawn says. “In my defense, at the time my actual guardian and role model, Jonathan Turner, rode one.”

“ _What?_ ” Maya exclaims. “Mr. Turner used to ride a motorcycle?”

“Until he crashed it and ended up in the ER in critical condition, sure,” Shawn says. “That was one of the roughest nights of my life.”

 _”What?”_ Maya exclaims. 

“What what?” Shawn says. “Shocked that grown ups other than your mom screw up? It happens all the time, kiddo. You know, kids don’t come with a user’s manual. I sure didn’t. Poor Jon didn’t know what hit him, and he still did a stellar job.” Shawn pulls abruptly into a parallel parking space. “It’s about two blocks up. I’ll walk you.”

“Not necessary,” Maya assures him.

“It will make me feel so much better if I can watch you walk through the door and not run away on your future,” Shawn insists. “I can hang out in the lobby and work. I’ve got plenty to do.”

Maya makes a remarkably quick grab for the computer in the backseat. Shawn is enough of an idiot that his password is Riley’s birthday, so opening it up is no big deal for Maya, but what she sees on the _Microsoft Word document, God, how old are you, _is a bit of a surprise.__

__**Things to Do in New York on the Cheap That Won’t Make Your Teenager Roll Her Eyes (More Than Three Times)** _ _

__“Shawn,” she says, “what the hell is this?”_ _

__“Well,” Shawn says, obviously trying to cover embarrassment. “It’s clearly something I’m working on.”_ _

__“Uh-huh,” Maya says, as obnoxiously as she can manage._ _

__“Clearly, you’ve already struck the MoMA from the list. You eye-rolled more than thirty times, by my count. You’ve got seventy-three ideas to work from, and we’re really trying to shoot for a list of ten, so try to reign in the sarcasm.”_ _

__“Um, Shawn? This is clearly going to take more than a weekend.”_ _

__“I’m well aware of that,” Shawn says. “Look, Maya. Your mom and I have been trying to tell you this for a long time, and it hasn’t really stuck. And I don’t blame you for not believing either of us, because, when I was your age, I wouldn’t have, either. But you know I met you first. And I know a little bit about what your life is like. And I care a whole lot about making sure it doesn’t turn out like mine. So, for the last time, I want you to hear that no matter what happens with your mom and I, _both_ of us will always be here to care about you. And if one of us is busy or unreliable at that moment? Call the other. Or call the Matthews. Because, you, kid, have a whole lot of people who love you and who care what happens to you.”_ _

__Without her willing it, Maya feels those bottom muscles in her cheeks welling up into a smile. “Okay, Shawn,” she says. She kisses his cheek before she ducks out of the passenger side door._ _

__She hears his door slam a second later._ _

__“Don’t think you’re getting out of your escort to the door of this art audition. If I were in your situation, I’d have run for the hills. And I’m not giving you the chance to repeat my nonsense. So let’s go.”_ _

__Maya rolls her eyes._ _

__“Clearly we can eliminate auditioning for LaGuardia from this weekend list of ours,” Shawn says sarcastically._ _

__“We must have done something super wrong in a past life to deserve each other,” Maya says._ _

__“I don’t doubt it,” Shawn agrees._ _

__Maya throws her arm over his shoulder. He’s kind of the closest thing to a dad she’s got._ _


End file.
